


Death of a Gambler

by loveinadoorway



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway





	Death of a Gambler

There was, he thought, a lot of beauty among the weeds. At least for one with eyes to see. A surprising array of shapes and colours, all bustling with life. It struck him how delicate some purple blossoms looked among the thorns and razor-sharp blades of grass. He had never paid much attention to these things before, but now, at his ultimate moment of truth, he saw. And understood.

The bullet had pierced his lung, he thought with surprising calm. Hot lead had drawn an angry red path through his chest, crushing bone and shredding muscle. His laboured breaths were forming a red bubbly froth on his lips, but he was past the pain now.

How quiet it was, here among the dead. A metallic green beetle stomped determinedly past his outstretched hand. Brandon smiled.

Only minutes before, his life had been one big, greedy grasp for fame and fortune. He was a gambler, always had been after the easy dollar and the fame of being the fastest at the draw. He had had so many chances, made so many wrong choices. If he had stuck with studying law, he wouldn't be here now. But following his father's footsteps had seemed about as appealing as ... as dying in a decrepit graveyard?

He had come to this godforsaken town to challenge the greatest gunfighter that ever lived. They had met in the unforgiving noon sun, circled each other and then two shots had scared off the crows watching from their vantage point on the telegraph pole. Two shots, but only one had found its mark. Now he was breathing his last in the dirt among some crooked wooden crosses. He had been so sure of himself, his speed, his eye, his courage. How foolish.

Helen had tried to talk him out of it, of course. Weeping and wailing, as always, and so he had not listened, as always. Would she weep for him? Mourn him? Would she even know he was dead? How long until she would cling to the next riverboat gambler's arm, smiling and coyly fluttering her lashes at him?

Strange, how the seconds stretched like hours, how each breath seemed like a lifetime. How clearly he saw his past, present and future collapse, as he lay on this small stretch of dirt with a few straggling weeds. His field of vision contracted, blurred, spun away as he lay dying.

"You have such a way with words, darling!" He heard Helen's husky voice as she laughed at his protestations of undying love. They had met on the "Rosalind", a riverboat on its way to New Orleans. Brandon's world, the gambling tables, the worn velvet and the smell of cheap perfumes and horses. She had sung there, a poor voice, but a first class body to distract men's attentions from the singing. A strange creature, as grasping about money as she was generous with her body. Would she even hesitate one second before seeking her fortune with someone else?

Brandon drew another shuddering breath and with his last conscious thought remembered the smell of his mother's perfume and the rustle of her lavender gown as she went out to the opera with his father a lifetime ago. He smiled. Then he was still.

"He's dead as a doornail, Jack."

A booted foot, spurs jangling, turned him over unto his back. Cornflower blue eyes staring at nothing, a smile half hidden under bloody froth.

"Man, you almost missed this 'un. Gettin' ole, Jack?"

A thick spurt of tobacco juice landed in the dirt next to Brandon's head.

"Let him be, man, some of them pious townfolk will come an' bury him for sure. Dammit, I don't even know his name.


End file.
